the light of the moon feels like the burn of a fire and the cracking of a house that never did anything but love the way you kept the kettle on even after the water boiled because you knew metal wouldn't spark the way their smile made you. you're so silent you're deader than the branches of trees that have met their match with the concrete, you look down from the 6th story of your apartment building on pike street. you follow the fire escape with your eyes and you wonder why the house has to be burning for you to use it, and why it doesn't even touch the ground. you remember the way she loved sitting on the bottom step like a swing and imagining she was weightless. she never meant to hurt you with the way her hair felt like needles and her touch felt like petals, and you never meant to torture yourself with how you thought of her as a metaphor. the night is where sunsets go to die and you swear at the stars like a sailor when you know **** well the moon is the one who controlled the tide. you hate how she loved the sea and how every hawaiian volcanic eruption flooded it but never stopped it from coming to shore. the day's losing its lust and it's barely midnight and you haven't smoked in so long because you know what it feels like to be addicted to something that could **** you. her figure like an hourglass and that still wasn't enough to tell you she was a ******* ticking time bomb. you're afraid of the dark and maybe that's why you confided in her as a safety. embers in her eyes, the way fire's were blue at their hottest point and her pupils were surrounded by the purest color you'd ever seen. the funny thing is, lighthouses don't guide people back home with the intention that they won't ever leave again. you're like a left lane driver that had too much to think and your life is passing with every sign telling you to exit. you've gone by 18 red cars, 94 blue ones, and you have 2 more days on the road. you won't ever see her again. you won't see her in the ocean reflection. you wouldn't dare see her in the morning sunlight, but you'll see her years from now in every coffee shop, on every bridge, in every strum of the guitar you used to play, there goes your life, passing by, every plane in the sky going somewhere different, every vehicle trying to locate a home, and they're all walking on two legs, somewhere where the sky meets the sea, and somewhere where your eyes will never meet me.

may your body lay completely still as you're so calmly in the position that let my incorporeal being become a living apparition but i'm afraid i can't stay and i'll leave the way i came with your window curtains blowing in the breeze and your feet barely sticking out from your blanket. the night is as dark as day and i'm colder in your grasp than i ever was drowning, and if i reside into an ocean, please don't tell the moon where i've been. tides will turn into cyclones and hurricanes will erupt volcanoes and i pray that no amount of destruction should wake up the thing i wish to touch the most. to whatever god who watches me during my nomadic and agitated disclosure, i hope he sees wind in your pillow sheets and the sound of cracked branches against their own brethren, falling to their death upon wooden decks; one might say, coming back home. if i reside into an ocean, just don't tell the moon where i want to go. you dream of places so far from reach that your fingers feel them on typewriter keys and doorknobs you wish you could open. i see locations off of the perimeter of your coastal psyche and i'm lost on beaches with trees as rivers and the sky as the only familiarity ground that i've ever known to walk on. nothing happens when your blood is rushing and your feet are moving if you have no sense of direction in the currents if you're not swimming and most certainly if you're not drowning. if you reside into an ocean, i'm never going to sail your seas and find what i've been missing. the pool you're creating inside your stomach leaving way to millions of tiny mementos in your pit, and you're still trying to convince yourself that you haven't been dreaming past your third birthday. blue doesn't ever want to see red but it seems to be just fine intermixing the two to a hybrid vermilion from under your skin and if you think that is going to make any significant difference under trenches larger than your mind then **** it, if you reside into an ocean, the moon better not know where you intend to go.
wake up. you’re suffocating again.

at this point,
i don't see anything
stopping me from
hanging myself.
i would love to hang
every ******* feeling
i've ever had for you.
i'd put them in the washer,
then the dryer,
and hang them
on a small hanger.
i hope they're new emotions.
that way when i wash them,
they'll shrink a little,
and maybe then they won't
become too big for me.
maybe they'll even become
too small for me.
i hope that happens,
because at least those feelings
are something i can
manage to sell to others
with little or no use at all
without remorse.